Interiority

I fumble towards conceptions of the truth
Which do not suit me. All experience
Seems to repudiate the hopes of youth
And, even more, what seemed like common sense.
The reason which was in me, and hard-wired
Is useless, and what's worse, still calls to me
Because although its usefulness expired
On contact with the world, immediately,
I have no other instincts. I do not
Know any other way. And yet each day
I see the need for other kinds of thought
And other actions. Therefore, come what may,
I cannot be myself, but have no choice;
There's nothing else inside me to give voice.